


Come together for a common goal

by JaybirdTheAuthor



Category: Dream Team - Fandom, Minecraft - Fandom, Minecraft youtube, Video Blogging - Fandom, sleepy boys - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Find out, George do kinda be a traitor, I don’t plan on making this smut, Kinda not, Lowkey suspend your disbelief, Mafia AU, Minecraft, Multi, Ooooooh, Rich people in general? Yeees, Tags May Change, YouTube, but I might write one if asked, but I think I have a pretty ok idea, but I’m a man myself, but who minds one more! I can keep up, fanfics, i already have, i simp block men, idk how Mafia works perfectly, im supposed to sleep but noooooooo, rich men? Yes, rich women? Even better, so homosexuality, so many, t a g s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaybirdTheAuthor/pseuds/JaybirdTheAuthor
Summary: The honey in his voice is meant for deception, it has to be, he’s the boss of one of the most powerful mafia operations of the continent, no, world. He’s slimy, disturbing, charming but made of pretty little lies.But for some inexplainable reason, Dream agrees without a doubt. Sometimes George wonders if he’s the only one here with a brain, Good grief.AKA George is the right hand man of an American mafia boss, watching helplessly as the masked man seemingly throws generations of work under the bus for profits he can’t see being worth all the effort.
Relationships: Clay Dream/georgenotfound, Clay dream & wilbur soot, Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Tommyinnit & Tubbo, clay dream/Wilbur soot (mentioned), sleepy boys inc - Relationship
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

He isn’t a difficult man to understand despite his appearance being an absolute mystery, he is a man that is better left without questions and enjoyed in a way that has no curiosity, has no funny business to it, he is a man who respects his privacy after all. He seems like the most simple of all enigmas when it comes to the way he is sitting in the car seat with his mask on his face to hide from the world, subtly pulling it over his eyes to not look at the things happening outside with his right hand man talking about what is going to be happening in this meeting—Dream seems uncaring to the contents of his speech, annoying George to the point of wishing to rip his hair out. He’s so tired of Dream, sometimes at least, reckless man with reckless plans that somehow work out nonetheless pisses him off hugely when they’re talking about L’manberg (or L’manburg, he’s not sure which one the name actually is). 

L’manburg is rather different, it’s a drug empire from Europe with a leader with a clear face to attach to, a reputation only slightly less filled with rumours and wicked memories than the American George works with, the other man’s name being Wilbur. George personally has never met the man, no matter how he keeps getting pestered that he must due to being British himself, especially since he is associated with organised crime, but he knows from the way the others have spoken about him that he is almost—maybe as intelligent as dream. Such a person existing is both terrifying and intriguing to the right hand man, Dream may be reckless but he’s nothing to scoff at when it comes to intellect, especially for George no matter how he wishes he would take this a tiny bit more seriously, even the smallest bit, just a drop of seriousness instead of wheezing with Sapnap while the Brit feels sick with unease at the moving scenery.

When the meeting location is reached, a simple abandoned looking pizza place near the dock, Dream puts the mask on right with what George thinks may be a tiny bit of an uneasy glance at him before he opens the door for himself, jumping out the car with barely a look around. The Brit wonders how the hell the man can be so incredibly intelligent to the point of making him feel idiotic with the ease of his genius ways—but then a minute later jump out the car just for a chance to stretch his long legs. Perhaps George is simply too short to understand the feeling of ecstasy that seemingly causes the reckless actions but even if he doesn’t understand doesn’t mean he can’t criticise them within his mind, he’s aware, alert, and having Dream be like this brings him unease.

Next to the door stands a man—two men actually, George expects them to be who they’re here to meet. One looks young, other man seems his age, he assumes the one with the better posture to be Wilbur only based in brown eyes that have been described to him, as well as him being tall enough to probably stomp on him in his average height. He suddenly feels so very short, even if he is average, with everyone standing at least 6 feet other than Sapnap. Is there a height cutoff for being a mafia leader he isn’t aware of? He’d assume tall bodyguards, not tall heirs.

“Dream,” Wilbur speaks, tone of voice surprising George in the warmth, familiarity, kindness, it isn’t what he expected from Mafia but it’s exactly what he expects from the curly hair and wide smile. George almost feels it has to be a trick, a lullaby into a false security, the way the man speaks cannot possibly be natural for a man with such power, “Welcome, my friend, pleased you could make it!”

“Pleasure is all mine,” Dream speaks, polite, no rambling, expresses no need for cheek kisses and questions about family. It’s definitely unease, George notes, or perhaps awkwardness. He’s know his boss long enough to know when such an issue comes, when he speaks short and polite, laughs quietly, doesn’t wheeze, all signs of awkwardness unease or discomfort. 

“I believe you have met Tommy,” Wilbur speaks, keeping to his smile, keeping to his polite almost mentor like role. Perhaps for ‘Tommy’, he doesn’t exactly know, but his voice is much calmer than he could’ve expected. Wilbur acts more like he’s drinking wine in a room of white furniture sitting back with a little smirk because he’s sophisticated and knows his hands won’t spill and if it were to, he could just replace, rather than like he’s seen the gates of hell and will drag you through them with fury and hatred for looking at him wrong even with his height giving him an edge unless he goes for the kneecaps.

“I have,” Dream speaks, Tommy looking at him with a fuming look in his eyes that makes him look completely hilarious and also terrifying, “I hope we’re not meeting about his property—I was given the discs as fairly as he got them the first time.”

“While I still think what you did was like taking candy from a baby, you were born into all this fighting and dealing and fear,” Wilbur starts, dream about to start defending himself but cut off by Wilbur speaking, “That’s not what I’m talking about, not today. Perhaps one day in the future I may request you reconsider stealing something with nearly no value to you but having fought someone younger than you for it, having crushed someone’s spirit and taken sentimental objects, that day is not today.”

“The more you insult me the less I want to negotiate,” Dream finally proclaims after the long speech leaves the tall Brits mouth.

“Oh goodness do you need me on my knees for you, Dream?”  
“Preferably.”  
“Oh great Dream forgive me I think it’s underhanded to fight someone with not a quarter of your experience!”

“You weren’t on your knees,” George speaks, drawing the attention of the tallest Brit with a simple sentence. Well shit, he is done for, he is absolutely destroyed. Wilbur is looking at him and unlike Dream, who George reads with reasonable mistakes here and there due to familiarity not always meaning causation mean, Wilbur is scary and confusingly open.

“Who are you?” Wilbur questions with intrigue, watching George with interest and a cocked eyebrow as George thinks of what to say, wondering how he should introduce himself.

“George, he’s my friend,” Dream speaks, putting an arm around him with a look in the direction of Wilbur, as if to say to back off him. George just rolls his eyes, he’s not useless enough to need to be introduced, he just needed a moment because of his absolute and complete terror because of the chocolate eyes looking at him like he’s an intruder, weirdly calm yet angry, so unjustly open yet masked. It just took him aback.

“Friend?” Wilbur asks with a laugh, looking at George then Dream, everything about the laugh is so weirdly uncomfortable, “I didn’t know you had those.”

“I have many,” Dream speaks, snapping his mask slightly against his face, George rolling his eyes at the action, “Especially as a civilian, without the mask. I doubt you get to see how that works though, flaunting your face wherever you go.”

“Perhaps that’s logical enough, I will give you it must be significantly easier. However, riddle me this, does George even know your face, Dream?” 

No I don’t, George thinks, looking over to Dream with anxiety because he can feel how he looks down at him in one of those rare moments George can’t actually know what’s going on in his head even when he’s learned to read him so well, he’s learned to understand with the mask what the hell is going on with him every single time he speaks, he’s learned to understand the masked man. But currently? Currently he feels like as much of a mystery as when he first met him, when he first needed to work for the company as Dream introduced it as, he feels like a puppy being pulled by his stoic owner in directions he isn’t completely capable of understanding no matter how hard he tries to. It’s like he’s bearing his claws into him, wondering something he doesn’t understand—if he’s worthy? Have they known each other long enough for that to even come to his intelligent mind even if they got to know each other at an exceptional pace. He doesn’t understand.

“Pardon, didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers this much,” Wilbur speaks, Dream looking to him with pure annoyance to the reassurance of the smallest there, “Now, please, allow me to explain why I invited you here on the dock—other than taking you out of course—please come in.”

“Will, do we really need—?” Tommy starts, perhaps the first sentence of Tommy’s George has taken note of. Whatever he was saying, Wilbur stops him with a hand in the air, the boy huffing before quieting down in a way that makes almost no sense, as if this instruction felt bad to him or as if the very fact the command is silent is almost embarrassing.

“Tommy please if you want to be in the meeting, you will have to act like a man.”  
“But I am a man!”  
“Act it then, we have discussed this.”

“What is it about?” Dream questions as they finally get inside, sitting in a chair across the table from Wilbur where George sits with Tommy across from him, feeling almost like a babysitter. Babysitter at a Mafia meeting, that there is either a comedy or a romance movie, he swears he would go see it.

“They’re increasing surveillance, Dream,” Wilbur speaks lowly, looking over at the shorter American before leaning in, “And you and I, we, we need to work together before someone who isn’t paid off finds us, I had the luck it was Schlatt on report or I’d be out thousands right now. We need to combine the efforts we are making towards protection or both of us get caught, Dream.”

“What are you suggesting?” Dream questions, looking over to Sapnap with a smile, “And what’s your evidence?”

“Evidence? Why would we need to present evidence? We are taking a huge leap in security risks, we are actively making a sacrifice, we are the ones who should need evidence you won’t hurt us or our business, you disc stealing Americans!” Tommy speaks, leaning over the table with fierce and fiery blue eyes that almost make him seem threatening even if he is a child and one fairly similar to a noodle at that. Wilbur letting him continue for reasons beyond the understanding of George, it’s what makes him question the interaction as it happens, wondering what the hell is going on when the man is practically the calmest one there just before, careful not to let tensions strike too high.

“We understand you need evidence and we have first Schlatt going on record, second copies of police reports, third a copy of the camera recording of our delivery boy and a few more pieces if they are required,” Wilbur explains, calm, collected, “We need you to protect ours where we protect yours. When you get a transport, when we get one, we need help keeping the police away, keeping the security up.”

After a moment of silence, Wilbur speaks again to make sure that the business proposal will be taken, “We’ll share profits, if you want.”

The honey in his voice is meant for deception, it has to be, he’s the boss of one of the most powerful mafia operations of the continent, no, world. He’s slimy, disturbing, charming but made of pretty little lies.

But for some inexplicable reason, Dream agrees without a doubt. Sometimes George wonders if he’s the only one here with a brain, Good grief.

But then again he is fairly certain Dream is too intelligent to fall for something sketchy and he’s neglecting to see something, some detail.


	2. I wrote this already the draft got deleted for no reason. Not pog.

Plain.

He is not technically plain like he thinks of himself, he is technically quite a bit more than a plain piece of white bread but he does feel like that a lot of the time with such a set routine to his life and how the only thing that is changing that routine at all is a being, a person, his boss who is pretty sure he can call a friend. He’s just a British boy with good computer skills to play around with, he spends his free time playing games and lovingly petting his dog. Sometimes he talks to his coworkers and his boss, he thinks they are friends especially with the joking air they have, that air they have especially currently in this car. The air is very playful, joking about working a 9 to 5 and how Dream actually had another job at a company simply to give himself a more convincing civil life when he was younger and his dad was still the boss. Even though being asked about it is off the market for his safety, it is very funny to joke about all together. It’s a hilarious joke how there was a future Mafia boss checking inventory somewhere in some place every other week, how he’d be doing work and talking to a girl he’d worked with about maybe meeting up for coffee someday even though he was interested in her. He’d been so normal and yet so totally abnormal. He could—fuck he can appear somewhat normal with effort and weirdly George is so jealous of the effort this takes Dream while he fits in effortlessly. He’s effortlessly capable of landing a job, capable for seeming like a college student looking for extra cash to not be a daddy’s spoiled brat. He effortlessly fits in and it makes him feel so plain, it hurts him. Sapnap has to give effort too, apparently, less than Dream but they met through the fact Sapnap’s father worked with Dream’s father—he was raised to think this was something normal and completely ordinary so fitting into the world of only part legalities George comes from would be so hard for him. He’s never felt more like plain white bread more in his life, he wasn’t the most ordinary kid in his past and the fact he now is the standard of normal makes him feel almost unneeded.

He would voice how unneeded he feels if voicing emotions was his thing. The issue with George and emotions is the following, in the most simple form, his mouth will never listen to him when he tells it to tell all these loving things or all these emotions he feels. His dad was coaching him how to say ‘I love you’ for his mother’s birthday, it just doesn’t fucking work, something short circuits and he forgets how to say words about how he feels and especially in this car with his friends (or coworker and boss—interpersonal relationships are extremely complicated for no fucking clear reason) joking around about how much they love each other while he feels like crawling into himself with some sort of betrayal voicing itself in his head. The betrayal is stabbing him, begging him to understand he isn’t needed here while eating him alive and fuck he thought medicine and therapy would fucking fix this but no he’s still having these motherfucking moments around too much emotion where he shuts down and stops working for no fucking reason other than he just can’t work at all. There’s no reason he just loses all ability to comprehend what the fuck is happening and how to feel and FUCK.

“Geeeeeeorge, you love us right?”

His eyes look over to Dream for the ghost of a moment, wondering how to voice ‘sure’ without sounding dismissive—fuck what if he needs to say it? What if this is something really important? He shouldn’t have had coffee this morning, he doesn’t even like coffee, his brain is running away from him with all his thoughts when this is already hard for him. Dream and Sapnap are built different to him, they can say words like this, they can casually throw around the words ‘I love you’ when he always preferred the three tap rule and things like it where he doesn’t have to voice anything. His love language couldn’t be further from word based things, he would rather clean up a bookshelf his friend has complained about being unorganised or make people their favourite foods or something. His mouth is nothing but a block between his brain and affections, a ruiner for emotional moments with the bluntness, a ruiner of moments with the inability to adapt to the situation. Both Sapnap and especially Dream have a different kind of relationship to words, their thoughts are paint and their mouths are brushes that can make the finest details or run over with the biggest splashes, their words are a canvas and they can make absolute art with those supplies where his block makes him spill paint in hopes it looks like something that makes sense in any way possible, his colourblind eyes can’t tell if his spilled paint even works at all with everything being what others called a bright yellow. His sunsets mix with the grass and drip down until the original intent looks like a squint and turn your head deal, when they were wrong from the start. He doesn’t understand how this is so casual, he feels so plain, he’s just another empty canvas of a man with the inability to speak his thoughts and anxieties. His brain is storming with a thought that maybe he just isn’t meant to be understood, he’s supposed to be a side character with no characteristics in the young adult novel where people like Sapnap are the main characters. Perhaps he will be left with his thoughts until they swallow him, take him hostage with chains and breathless chokers of metal—perhaps he’s doomed to live in a dungeon of his own thoughts where he just can’t escape until he finds a way to express himself or it’s too late and he becomes but another skeleton in the catacombs of his mind. Perhaps he’s forever going to be a man with this disaster, tornado of things he can’t voice, in his head. He’ll forever choke back tears at his worst, fall asleep on calls without asking to not be alone and to have deniability he feels plain and lonely on the daily.

“You know I do,” George gets out somehow, he doesn’t understand what gets him to say it. He’s a writer when it comes to emotions, writing and actions. This is why he loves his dog and knows that he knows he’s loved, his dog doesn’t understand his pathetic attempts at wording his thoughts out, his dog understands when he pets him with love and affection, his dog understands when he gets loved with the treats he pays with his paycheque just about most days. His dog understands that he is loved without him voicing it, his dog senses his anxiety and sleeps on his chest when he is at his worst like a weighted blanket so he feels safe. Dammit, why can’t people be more like animals, he wishes he could socially acceptably run his fingers in someone’s hair as a sign of platonic love or just play catch with someone to show that he loves them. He wishes he could ‘spoil them until they won’t leave his side’ like his mother called his relationship to his dog. If any of his ways of affection were the socially correct ones, he would be the most affectionate man alive, he’s so bad at giving affection nonetheless. He’s bad at giving any kind of affection and attention that is outside his average, he’s so bad at voicing anything at all, he kind of wishes he could have been mute so it wasn’t expected of him that he would be able to talk about his feelings—he has a therapist about this for fucks sake but the issue with a therapist is that it’s someone you talk these feelings over with and he isn’t actually at all capable of it so his therapist decided he is allowed to draw and write like a kindergartener or something—makes him feel slightly ashamed but fuck it what can he say? Nothing? Exactly. He can say absolutely nothing about this whole thing, he can say absolutely nothing about everything else too. 

“Yeah that’s me,” Dream speaks suddenly, shaking George from his self pity to listen to him because of the tone of voice he uses. He’s on the phone, George concludes, continuing to listen to him nonetheless as he nods along.

“I see, thank you. What was the name? Eret? Okay, I have a proposal for you. How much is your pay with Wilbur right now? I was wondering if perhaps you were needing a little bit more? Or maybe you had something like student loans you needed cleared?”

George looks to Dream, having him just give a frustratingly wordless thumbs up as if that made any fucking sense on any fucking level. What does this thumbs up mean? Does it have a meaning? Is he overthinking this?

“I see; per week or per month? Month? Here’s what I’m proposing, Eret, if I may. I’m willing to double that, I have the money to give you double the pay and give you a home if you are willing to listen to my proposal, I need you to report L’manberg plans to me. Anything I am not supposed to know. Are you willing? Or do I need to lift prices—I won’t heaitate to pull out if you overestimate your use but I am willing to play a bit if you need me to.”

“Is this smart to do over the phone?” George questions. Anyone could listen to this, anyone could hear this; if Eret has anyone with him or if the end to end isn’t kept secret or so many other possibilities. What if this is heard? What if he’s heard? What if he gets tracked? Can’t the police track phone calls made to them, Wilbur has police, what if that’s an issue? Can this bite Dream in the ass? Dream is smarter than that, he must have a plan, but he might also be fucking around again and fuck how is George supposed to help when he doesn’t even understand what’s going on sometimes? What reason is he here if these big decisions he’s supposed to help with are made with a coin flip? 

“Pleasure doing business with you, Eret, I hope to hear from you soon about L’manberg,” Dream speaks, ending his call with a pressumed ‘yessir’ or something like that from the other side of the line before Dream turns his to George.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” Dream speaks with comfort in his voice, a recognition he may need a bit of it.

‘Dream has got this,’ George thinks, breathing in and out to lessen anxiety until selfish thoughts enter him mind again, wondering what his fucking use is if Dream ‘has got this’ with fucking everything nowadays. He’s just plain, isn’t he.

——————————————————

As far as Eret knows, he has made himself a good deal here. More money means a lot more than you would think when it comes to moderately high pay work already, especially when he needs it for things, lots of things, things that would take him forever to pay out without a good pay. He has two paycheques per month fucking combined now, both very much above average for the country. For all senses and purposes, this is an amazing deal to strike with someone just by reporting on the safety of a load, just by doing his job. It’s like one Halloween you’re going trick or treating and instead of getting just one piece of candy per house you get ten and two dollars per house: that’s a fantastic deal. Like an absolutely amazing deal to the point he can’t even express how amazing this deal is.

He looks at the phone, deciding on doing something horribly stupid and pressing on ‘record’ on his phone, swallowing as the phone lets him know he is recording as he puts it in his inner pocket before he passes his coworker with a wave to the door of their meeting room.

“Sorry I’m late,” he speaks, out loud, entering a room with a long table with glass in the middle made of a wood he can’t quite tell apart though he can tell that the table is expensive, extremely so, the table might be more than his rent last month. It’s new, the previous mahogany coloured table with the edges covered in some kind of fake gold has disappeared somewhere mysterious for this more modern table to take its place with the more classy yet modern look compared to this previous more ‘haunted mansion’ table he got highered while sitting at.

He actually remembers the day he got highered, how he sat at the table with Wilbur and his father side by side expressing interest in him for skills he doesn’t think he had ever been complimented for before. The talk had been long, they had sat for hours expressing that this was not a suggestion but an order for him to obey or face consequences for. He never did know quite what those consequences would be but he assumes them to be something he wouldn’t live to feel. Maybe he’d get dumped into the sea, mangled to death, faked suicide could also be an option. Maybe they’d take his family hostage, hold a gun to his mothers head with a no giving out spilled out brains and nothing but screams of distress from him. Perhaps it would be something else, he doesn’t actually know much about these things, he read a few books about the mafia when he was younger but they were romantic ones with jawlines that could cut a raw chicken in half effortlessly and eyes that light up like fucking lampposts in the winter. All his actual info is from how he is working for Wilbur.

Technically, he isn’t working just for Wilbur, he doesn’t think. Other than the fact he got an offer from Dream, which he can’t quite comprehend, Wilbur technically isn’t the only boss here. Don’t get him wrong, Wilbur is his main boss, Wilbur runs this operation on every single level imaginable but he has a brother in the operation as well (though he works completely differently—he doesn’t have Wilbur’s ability with words but he’s so much better in so many ways that it shocks Eret sometimes—Techno is fucking fantastic at physically attacking people and so many other things he finds Wilbur to be lacklustre in), his father is still somewhat involved (though mostly in a mentoring role for Wilbur—Eret doesnt think he has ever gotten an order from the man in any direction. He doesn’t even think they have spoken much) and Tommy may be his third brother or something (at least his right hand man—they act quite brotherly so he would assume the matter to be that Tommy is his little brother).

He sits at his seat at the table, weirdly anxious as the room looks to him as a collective. Wilbur, Niki, Techno, Tommy, Tubbo, Phil and Fundy are all looking at him as he sits down in his seat and let’s his eyes wonder over everybody. This was a planned meeting, he doubts this is about the Dream offer, they couldn’t have known the call to mostly be about it, they couldn’t have known about the offer on any level at all actually. Sure he is anxious but he has no reason to be, he’s completely cool, all of this is completely understandable and he has no reason to be this anxious.

“Don’t make it a habit,” Wilbur warns, surprisingly threatening in a way that makes Eret feel like he’s in high school being lectured by the quiet teacher about cheating or something—he doesn’t know why the way Wilbur venoms at him is so terrifying, he doesn’t expect it when he’s so laid back for a Mafia person. This isn’t Wilbur’s style, he concludes to be the issue with how those words are spoken. If it was Tommy (or hell even Techno), he wouldn’t be currently so fucking shocked by it.

“Alright. Let’s talk now that everyone is finally here. I wanted reports, first of all, I asked you to give me a full report written down before this meeting. I’m sadly not surprised that Tubbo’s and Eret’s are so fucking short but considering the disability in question that does effect reading and writing in some manner I cannot but hope you do better next time. Would you ideally do a vocal report?”

“It would be better,” Tubbo speaks when Eret is still wondering if this question is meant to even be answered at all or if this is a rhetorical one to mock them (then again that is definitely not like Wilbur most of the time—sometimes, at his angriest, but he is surprisingly kind hearted to his workers most of the time). Tubbo is definitely braver than him to answer to his face, perhaps because Tubbo is younger than him he doesn’t know to read situations as quickly and simply taking it at surface level.

“I can take them,” Tommy is quick to speak, a surprise in his kindness but definitely a welcome one. Tommy isn’t a very nice guy, he’s definitely one to demean in a way that’s meant playful but can easily go too far, that’s Erets understanding at least after the long long time he has spent here. He has probably been involved here longer than Tommy actually, only because Tommy is significantly younger than him and if he started around Tommy’s age then Tommy would have been early teens in his start. He doesn’t actually know if Tommy had training or something though, he came in straight out of high school and back then he didn’t hear a word about the kid. It was only around when Dream and Tommy had something about discs or something that he first heard of Tommy at all.

“Problem solved, I suppose,” Wilbur speaks to that, Techno nodding in the background as Niki plays with her thumbs or something. He doesn’t know why the poor girl is so nervous but he can feel anxiety in her with every movement she makes, Fundy making an attempt to calm her, at least slightly. He has missed something, he is sure about it.

“Onto the actual topic of conversation, I had to talk about Schlatt first of all. Don’t tell him anything, anything at all, he’s on thin ice at the moment. Niki caught him trying to steal produce, we are looking into it instead of straight up taking him off payroll.”

“I don’t see why he gets such loyalty if he can’t be loyal to us,” Fundy speaks, Wilbur giving him a glare of sorts, the kind that really shows Fundy is almost like a son of Wilbur (or is—it’s complicated if he’s adopted or not) while Niki becomes even more blatantly anxious. 

“He gets loyalty because we’ve worked with him longer than any of the rest of you,” Wilbur answers, sitting down from his previous standing position to continue, “And in case this is a misunderstanding. If you had seniority in any other fucking company, they would look into it too, I’m simply treating Schlatt like the good employee he has shown himself to be with everything he has done for us.”

“If he has, I’ll slice his throat like I would anybody else’s,” Techno speaks, shrugging his shoulders with remarkably casual expressions, like this isn’t a statement that directly says ‘I’ll fucking kill a bitch if a bitch betrayed me’, “Betrayal is a betrayal, keeping someone alive for pity isn’t what we are here to do. It’s already Wilbur’s choice he gets a look at all.”

He’s so absolutely casual and monotone it would be chilling even if Eret didn’t realise his fuck up in this moment. He has betrayed the fucking Mafia, holy shit he has betrayed the fucking MAFIA, the actual fucking Mafia. That thing most people fucking fear and wish to never interact with. He has betrayed that. He has actually gone and recorded a meeting—not that this is a particularly important one from what it seems like—of the fucking Mafia and holy shit why is he so fucking stupid what the absolute fuck he needs to delete the fucking recording before anyone fucking finds out he even tried at this, holy fuck.

‘But’ his mind argues with him, him swallowing to listen to his thoughts argue with his panic, ‘you need the money. Dream might think you aren’t with him if you never send him anything, he can fuck you over too. You should send this, this isn’t important, and maybe keep actually important information to yourself. You already fucked up; you can really only go the safest way here.’

He feels as nervous as Niki looks, eyeing the girl and Fundy with his head feeling like it’s being held underneath water. If he says that ‘oh yeah Dream hired me to listen in on meetings’, he’s fucking done for. If he doesn’t send anything, he’s fucking done for. If he’s found out, he’s fucking done for.

The only option here that he has a slight chance of surviving is sending and hoping he doesn’t get found out, he justifies to himself after the meeting has been left behind as his fingers shakily go towards sending this audio before he swallows and just presses, watching how the bar goes up to a hundred and the recording sends. God he is so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. This is my second time writing this. Hope it’s good, not as good as the first clearly since I don’t have all the same words but I hope it’s understandable! And good! I don’t know man, it’s supposed to be a bit open ended so it gets explained onwards, hopefully not too much though!


End file.
